District II – Sidios Underground Laboratories
Deep Beneath the Neon Spine of Dream City
The air in Sidios Lab hung thick with chemical fumes—bitter, synthetic, and sharp enough to sting the eyes. Walls of cracked concrete pulsed with red warning-lights, flickering like heartbeat monitors losing rhythm. The ceiling dripped coolant, each drop glowing cyan as it fell into puddles that reflected the chaos below.
Crest stood at the center of the ruin he had created, a faint shimmer of his cloaking veil still dancing across his armor like dying starlight. Men, machines, drones—every security detail Raymond owned—lay scattered in broken heaps, their limbs twisted like discarded puppets.
Before Crest, Raymond trembled violently. A small-time whack-drug chemist turned counterfeit kingpin. Sweat streamed down his powdered face, leaving streaks like melting paint.
Behind him, crates spilled open—illegal vials, cheap memory chips, mutated enhancers, low-grade suppressants… all glowing in sickly neon hues. It looked like a dragon's hoard made of poisons.
Crest crouched, running his fingers over a cracked AdNorm vial.
His expression darkened.
"These are trash." His voice was low, almost bored.
"Where did you get the shipment?"
Raymond swallowed, voice cracking.
"I-I told you—I'm not the one! I just distribute. B-Block runs the whole thing now. Someone started supplying us—cheap, way cheaper than any city. He had everyone making huge orders—across the districts. It wasn't me!"
Crest didn't even face him.
He walked through the mess of drugs as though strolling through a museum.
He already knew B-Block was gone—nothing but blood, metal, and horror.
Confirmed massacre.
Retributors. SONS OF WAR operatives.
Chaos.
His communicator clicked.
A cold voice cut in—the man who never raised his tone.
Hein Spade.
"Status report."
Crest finally looked at Raymond—eyes glowing faint gold under his shadow hood.
"B-Block's butchered. Someone got to them first. Ghost operatives have been moving. And Sons of War are in the city. It's getting messy."
On the other end, Hein inhaled, the faint sound like a storm gathering.
"Return to the Moon Base. We have coordinates. I'm leading a counter-strike unit. We end this. All of it."
Crest asked quietly,
"And the monkey?"
A pause. Then Hein answered:
"Taken care of."
Crest nodded once.
The call cut.
Raymond saw Crest's expression harden—flat, unreadable, merciless.
Ice filled his veins.
"W-wait—please—listen—!"
Crest's gun echoed in the underground darkness like thunder trapped in a tomb.
Silence fell.
Only the drip of neon coolant answered.
Somewhere in Babel City – Moon Base Core
Bineth Global Headquarters, "The Sky Throne"
High above the domes of Babel City, inside a sky-piercing obsidian tower, Leon Lake sat in his circular chamber—a quiet storm in human form. The enormous window behind him revealed the Moon floating like a pale lantern surrounded by shifting light currents from orbital traffic.
The countdown numbers hovered before him in golden holograph script:
00:12:00:00 — LUNAR BASE GRAND OPENING
A cathedral-sized hologram of the Off-World Lunar Base rotated in the air.
Tower spires. Excavation rings. Gravity anchors.
A new city in the making.
His AI assistant APOLLOS manifested beside him—an elegant humanoid projection with constellations swirling inside its body like a living galaxy.
"Chairman Lake," Apollos spoke softly,
"Here are the final invitation lists. All expected dignitaries, investors, and corporate heads have confirmed."
Leon nodded, eyes sharp, calculating.
The lights from the hologram painted angular shadows across his face.
"Send the invites."
Apollos' eyes glowed.
The invitations shot out through the network like silver arrows.
The AI turned.
"Shall I prepare your lunar transport? The ceremonial presence of the Chairman is customary."
Leon paused, fingers tapping the glass table.
Beyond the window, a slow-moving Type-II storm brewed above the stratosphere—like a grey dragon stretching across the heavens.
Something felt off.
Something in the wind.
In the silence.
Leon's brow furrowed.
"…No."
Apollos tilted its head.
"Sir?"
Leon leaned back, aura suddenly cold.
"I won't be going."
The AI dimmed slightly in confusion.
Leon didn't explain.
He didn't need to.
Because somewhere deep in his instincts—something older than logic—told him the lunar opening would not be a celebration.
It would be the beginning of a war.
And Leon Lake intended to watch from the shadows.
Meanwhile...
Hauwai Sandes paced the length of his glass-walled office like a caged predator. The neon haze of Babel City spilled through the towering window—blue, red, and violet lights pulsing like the heartbeat of a sick giant. Sirens wailed from far below, carried upward by the cold desert wind that always slipped through the megastructures at night.
The city felt on the edge of something catastrophic. And Hein—reliable, ruthless Hein—was preparing to launch his offensive. Sandes trusted him to tear through the Bithrete mines like a blade cutting silk. But the Sons of War… the Retributors… they were another matter entirely. Imagawa and Atsumori had vanished from the world, but their companies still prowled like wounded beasts searching for whoever had cornered them. They would sniff out the truth eventually.
That would have to be managed.
And the counterfeit Adnorm surge—that was the real fire twisting the city's spine. Without clear examination of what was entering the market, the situation spiraled like an infection. Each new shipment felt like a live grenade tossed into his operational room. Sandes rubbed his temples. He already had a dozen cover stories drafted, but chaos had its own rhythm.
Honami and Lira Cheb.
Right now, they were deadweight—useful once, but drifting. Their incompetence threatened everything. They needed motivation. A reminder of why they existed at their desks, under his employ, under Leon Lake's unforgiving shadow.
He exhaled sharply, stopped pacing, and tapped his comm.
The digital wall rippled, forming two holographic windows. Honami and Lira appeared, stiff-backed but visibly shaken. Their rooms flickered behind them—cold labs, blinking amber lights, unspoken failure.
Sandes kept his expression carved from stone.
"What's the update?"
Silence.
Not a word.
Their shame filled the room like fog.
He nodded once, slowly.
"We'll address your individual failures later. For now"—his voice dropped to a smooth, threatening calm—"I have a proposal."
Their holograms leaned forward instinctively.
"I'm aware that new counterfeit Adnorm shipments are inbound for examination. Effective immediately, I am removing this operation from your hands. Athenaia, she will take over the investigation. Reroute the shipments, and all associated data streams, to the Lunar Base. No exceptions."
Neither woman protested. They only lowered their gaze and nodded, the tension in their shoulders tightening.
Before Sandes could close the line, another window blinked open—Leon Lake himself.
Chairman of Bineth Global.
The man who made everyone else in the city feel microscopic.
"Status."
A single word. Heavy. Metallic.
Sandes straightened, every instinct sharpening.
"We found their location—the abandoned Bithrete Mines outside city dome. The bastard has been under our nose the entire time. Hein is leading a strike team as we speak."
A brief pause. He continued.
"As for the counterfeit network, I'm handling it personally. Results soon. The invitations have begun transmitting—the first stakeholders will be off-world shortly. I'm leaving for Lunar Base now."
Leon Lake nodded once. His eyes glinted like twin surgical lasers.
"Today is a big day. Don't mess it up. I expect results. Deliver."
The call dissolved in a ripple of light.
Sandes lowered his head, one hand balled into a fist at his side. When the holograms faded and the room darkened again, he exhaled—a long, cold breath.
He would deliver.
Without question.
Without hesitation.
Everything depended on it.
Babel City – Moon Base Port Landing
The night side of Babel City shimmered beneath the floating docks—vast sky-piers of steel and lunar-white alloy arranged like rib bones of some ancient star-beast. Bineth Global's Inter-Orbital Shipment Vessel 7A stood tall on its magnetic clamps, humming low as it refueled. Sparks from the plasma hoses illuminated the hull like tiny blue meteors.
Inside the cockpit, two pilots leaned back in their chairs, staring at the newly updated navigation route pulsing across their holo-screens.
"Lunar Base, what a beauty! " the first pilot muttered, rubbing his eyes. "You think we'll actually get to step foot on it this time?"
The second pilot let out a short laugh—dry and amused.
"Not in your lifetime, man. Lunar runs auto-jump sequence on all cargo—straight from near distance orbit bridge. We won't even get near the landing deck because it has none. Those places are for the mega-rich and the board members."
They shared a laugh—low, tired, the kind of laughter workers use to forget their insignificance under corporate steel.
Outside, the fuel hoses detached with a hiss. The vessel's engines glowed amber, ready for lift. But before ignition, a sharp alarm sliced through the cockpit.
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP.
"Cargo Bay 03 opening," the system announced.
The pilots stiffened.
"That can't be right… I didn't authorize it," the first pilot said, checking his display three times.
"Could be a malfunction," the second replied. "I'll go check.That cargo has been a pain in my ass, Keep comms open."
He unbuckled, grumbling about faulty ports and tight schedules as he headed down the narrow metallic corridor. The hum of the ship echoed around him—steady, mechanical, safe.
Until his comm crackled.
Static.
"Hey—Bay 03, respond," said the pilot in the cockpit. "Everything good down there, sure you aren't sniffing something you shouldn't," The pilot laughed
Nothing.
He tried again, voice tightening. "Come on, man, don't play—"
A cold presence pressed behind him.
A hand.
Large. Calm. Too calm.
Before he could turn, the grip tightened—like a metal vice around his skull. A sharp projectile thrust right out of it hammering into the body of its victim. A brutal death. Fast. Efficient.
His body dropped lifelessly. A shadow dragged him into the dark.
Sebastian stepped into the light.
Expression blank. Movements deliberate. He wiped blood off his sleeve without a trace of emotion and sat in the pilot's chair. The vessel's console reflected in his eyes—a thousand symbols, destinations, risk markers.
He pulled out a small, curved device from his coat.
Pressed it once.
The interface glowed deep red, pulsing like a warning heart.
Somewhere far beneath Babel City, inside the abandoned Bithrete Mine, a hidden chamber lit up—Firefly's lair. Screens, wires, drones, coils of neon, like the den of a techno-sorcerer. The red alert flashed across every monitor.
Firefly turned toward it, antenna-like implants flickering.
Chavez emerged from the side corridor, freshly shaved, wearing a fitted technician-commander uniform that gave him an air of dangerous elegance. Under the flickering lights, he looked like a man resurrected.
Firefly's mechanical eyes whirred softly as it studied him—its face half-mask, half-burned skin, lit by shifting holograms. There was something almost nostalgic in its silence.
Chavez exhaled. "Been a long time, Firefly."
The creature nodded, the motion sharp but warm. Old memories in its distorted expression—missions, battles, betrayal, vengeance.
"Get Spyder online ," Chavez said, voice low.
Firefly's fingers danced across its console. "Already prepped. And…"
Its head tilted as new data poured into its systems. "Incoming transmission flagged—Bineth vessel projection to target area confirmed."
Chavez's eyes darkened. "Sebastian made his move."
Firefly smiled faintly—an eerie stretch of metal and scar tissue. "Shall I play something classical? Calm before the storm?"
Chavez nodded once.
Firefly tapped a command.
From the speakers hidden in the cavern's darkness, a familiar melody unfurled—
Mozart, clear and haunting, echoing against the metal walls and abandoned mine shafts.
The notes drifted through the lair like ghost voices from another era.